Lysander nodded. "I seem better."

"The northern air agrees with you. It seems a robust place, Yorkshire. Very, um, pastoral. Healthy."

Lysander nodded. "Pastoral and healthy."

"Hmm. So, Goose-gogs, eh?"

Lysander didn't look at his brother, because he knew perfectly well the smirk Poll would be wearing. He'd seen it often enough in his life. "We will not be discussing Goose-gogs."

"Really? I'm fairly certain it's a popular area of conversation in this village." Poll sounded very smug. That wouldn't do at all.

"Only because no one knows about the time you swam in the altogether and then found a leech on your — "

"That's not fair! I was but twelve years!"

Lysander remained relaxed and waited. Poll grumbled, then snickered a little in memory. Then Lysander felt a brotherly swat on his bicep. He glanced at Poll, but his brother had turned his attention to one of the pretty Lamb sisters as she danced past. Still, Lysander could tell that Poll felt comforted by the familiar ground of their prickly exchange.

Lysander felt as though he'd passed some sort of test.

I gave him what he needed from me and it wasn't even difficult.

Out on the dance floor, Attie had abandoned her veneer of theatrical sophistication and was chasing the Gosling children in a figure-eight game of tag between the dancing couples.

Childish games and a flawless waltz. Both were performances for Attie, who had never been a child and who would no doubt become a very unusual woman. She was amusing herself but not actually participating in any substantial manner.

Lysander was beginning to suspect that he ought to be very careful with Attie. She seemed brittle, somehow. Not fragile, precisely. More in the nature of a change in weather causing a prickle of unease at the back of one's neck.

Rough weather ahead.

Lysander saw Button watching Attie as well, with a smile on his rounded features but also a tiny crease of concern between his brows.

A storm is coming.

Poll remained focused on Lysander. "It seems that you'll be back to your old self soon."

"Never," Lysander stated matter-of-factly.

"What you mean?" Poll slid his gaze toward him. "Why not? You're better, you said so."

Lysander looked down at the new calluses on his palms. Not riding calluses or rowing calluses, but pail-carrying, chicken-feeding, goat-tending, wall-repairing calluses. And much more work left to do.

"He's dead." Lysander looked up at Pol. "He died at Burgos Castle. Stop looking for him in me."

Poll blinked at Lysander's rough tone. He opened his mouth to debate that statement, then stopped. He nodded crisply "Understood."

Lysander thought that of all of his family, Poll probably did understand, at least somewhat. Poll's old life could no longer accommodate him either.